


what sweet company

by teaspoonery (quodpersortem)



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: 1940s, First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pacific Theatre of war, Possibly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 04:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13092324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodpersortem/pseuds/teaspoonery
Summary: (livejournal re-post fromhere; mine)rating: nc-17word count: 1800[link] he confesses it was an act of love, not friendshipdate: 2010-11-09





	what sweet company

> I love to rise in a summer morn,  
>  When the birds sing on every tree;  
>  The distant huntsman winds his horn,  
>  And the skylark sings with me.  
>  Oh! What sweet company.*

  
  
  
Sledge has heard of Basilone before – the man got a Medal of Honor after all. He is famous throughout all of America, and fought in this idiotic war long before Sledge even went into training to be a Marine. And now this brave man, this almost-legendary man has returned to the Pacific – even though Sledge is sure he’s seen the horrors of war as well, even though he supposes it is for a different reason than actually fighting.  
  
He talks to the men that are new to war. He talks to Sledge, too. It isn’t as if they are in the same company, but for some reason he has sensed Sledge, along with his nerves. There is a click between them and they start hanging out, almost. Basilone manages to stumble upon a weak point, bursting through a door in Sledge’s mind he thought he’d kept securely closed, and one evening they wind up talking in Basilone’s tent. Since he is celebrated, the luxury of a private tent can be offered to him for now, but not anymore in a few days, when they will have to pull out to fight.  
  
It doesn’t quite happen the way he expected it to. First they are just talking, and it is good - Sledge can learn something from the stories Basilone tells him and gets to lend a couple of his books. When they tire of the talk of combat – mostly because Sledge his nerves are playing up – they switch to other stories. Sledge asks Basilone about his wife, Basilone informs politely whether Sledge has a girlfriend. He shakes his head and blushes, well aware of how it must seem – a virginal Marine.  
  
He eventually admits, after half a bottle of whiskey, the only reason he joined the Marines was Sid. That he has never really had any ambition to fight for himself. And when Basilone keeps quiet for a minute, two minutes, he confesses it was an act of love, not friendship. The older man doesn’t seem shocked. Instead he puts away his glass and leans forward to Sledge. Puts a hand on his thigh. In any other situation, Sledge assumes, he would have bolted right out of the tent but – not now. His thoughts are slightly detached because of the alcohol, his head swimming in the humid heat when Basilone leans in. He could have ran.   
  
The kiss is short, tasting of whiskey and of what Sledge supposes is man, of salty skin because of the sweat and the sea breeze. When Basilone pulls away, Sledge is aware of the embarrassing whine escaping from his throat. Basilone just laughs and pats his shoulder. Asks whether Sledge is, by any chance, still in school - to which Sledge defiantly replies he isn’t,  _thank you very much, Sir_ , and that he finished high school a year ago. He watches –  _observes_  Basilone’s eyebrows rise in surprise. When he mentions he is older than Sid, as he was born the forth of November while Sid wasn’t until September the next year, Basilone starts laughing and says November must be a good month. When Sledge asks why, Basilone says they share their birthdays, albeit with five years difference.   
  
Basilone is exactly five years his senior, and has the power to silence the other man with eye contact. Five years that have never mattered this much. Sledge once again becomes aware of how stifling hot it is in the tent when their laughter dies down, of how his heart is pounding in his ears and in his throat. The other man leans in to him again, his eyes studying Sledge in a way he isn’t used to. It’s lust, he thinks, he hasn’t got experience with it – a definitive interest.  
  
When they kiss again, something has changed. Their tongues are sliding together more desperately, and right when Sledge thinks he gets the hang of it, likes it, Basilone’s hands start to roam over Sledge’s body. The touches make his nerves tingle and his hairs stand on end, even in the warmth of the tent. His own arms feel uncomfortable; he isn’t quite sure where to put them, until Basilone pulls him up from where he is sitting on the stretcher bed, into his lap, and guides them to his neck. Sledge has to spread his legs a little to sit comfortably, and Basilone supports him with one hand on the small of his back.  
  
The kiss deepens and Sledge thinks he gets it now – understands why people do this, why they like it. His hips start making brief movements forwards, rocking his growing erection against Basilone’s stomach. The other man pauses the kiss again, this time so they can get rid of their shirts. Sledge watches how muscles move under soft, scarred skin. How the other man’s dark nipples are sharp points, a hard contrast against the creamy caramel. Touches them, briefly and anxiously, as if Basilone would swat away his hand. He doesn’t. This time Sledge initiates the kiss, feeling victorious when Basilone lets out a stifled groan. All the time he continues to rock his pelvis, as if Basilone is the sea and Sledge is the boat, sailing skin and more growing hardness underneath.  
  
It doesn’t last long before Basilone’s hand find their way to the waistband of Sledge’s pants, slipping in easily because they’re slightly too large and held up by a belt which he undoes himself. Then his zip is being pulled down and a hand covers his erection - which makes him buck forwards again. When his movements get harder and faster, the hand against his dick more shameless, Basilone pushes the underwear out of the way. Sledge wonders whether he should stand up to get rid of his trousers, but when he looks at the older man – with his head thrown back lazily, his eyes almost closed but still looking at him, he decides against it and pushes himself – his dick – against the body opposite of him. Skin against skin feels good, he decides right there and then. Basilone starts fumbling with his own belt, not pushing Sledge away although he needs more room, no doubt. When Sledge gives the older man said space, it doesn’t take Basilone long before he’s got his own trousers opened, his erection standing up between their bodies, leaning heavy and leaking against the dark trail of hair that runs from his pubes up to his naval. Sledge stares for a moment, until Basilone roughly forces him back with a hand on his shoulder.  
  
Then they resume to kissing, even as Basilone moves their bodies, tugging at limbs so Sledge ends up on his back on the bed with Basilone atop of him. He forces Sledge’s pants further down his legs. Their movements are quick and still vaguely uneasy, but most of all it feels good,  _really_  good.  
  
Time starts passing by in a blur, so when they are both naked all of a sudden, he doesn’t quite know how it happened. One second he is still on his back, making out with Basilone, and the next a pillow is shoved under his hips and an oiled finger prods between his spread legs, in a place he doesn’t quite expect. Right when he wants to ask  _what?_ , when he tries to ask  _why?_ , Basilone pushes a finger in. He quickly goes beyond the first and second joints, hurting Sledge a little but he doesn’t dare complain, then twists it upwards so it hits a spot that makes Sledge’s hips buck up into the air, that makes him groan in pleasure. When Basilone withdraws the finger, he’s still trembling from the shock and the older man smiles at him, eyes bright. The prodding resumes with a second finger added, then a third, and right when he is starting to push back on them, overcoming the burn, Basilone takes his fingers away and replaces them with something larger, with the blunt head of his dick as he spreads Sledge’s arse cheeks with his thumbs. He doesn’t ask Sledge whether he’s ready for it, just stares into his eyes as he pushes in.  
  
A hand covers up his mouth when he tries to moan, to shout, while a mouth shushes in his ear. Sledge is trembling again, he’s got his legs hooked around Basilone’s thighs and his hands are gripping the sheets. He has got trouble to decide what he wants: to push Basilone away, or to force him on - to move and hit the spot inside him over and over again.  
  
Basilone must know what he’s doing though, as he stops all movements for a moment and so allowing Sledge the time to relax. Then he starts up an easy rhythm – and although it still burns, though his first instinct still tells him to push Basilone away, Sledge does begin to relax. It becomes easier to go with the movements and everything going on inside of him starts feeling less foreign. When he arches his hips, Basilone’s hand underneath his back again, Basilone hits the spot again. It makes Sledge’s head loll back, his eyes roll in their sockets because it feels  _good_ , because it is incredible – because it feels like his spine is melting.   
  
His own dick is trapped between their stomachs, slick with spit and pre-come, rubbing between his own skin and Basilone’s. When Basilone starts moving faster, losing his patience, Sledge doesn’t know what to focus on anymore. Then Basilone grabs his dick and Sledge is lost, looses it. His body jerks up again and his toes curl as his sperm starts spilling between their bodies, stringy, dirtily, obscenely.   
  
Basilone keeps pounding into him now, and although it seems like an eternity - Sledge’s body hyper stimulated - it can’t be more than three thrusts before Basilone stiffens. He buries himself deep inside Sledge with one final push as he starts coming. It’s a strange sensation and Sledge thinks he can feel the sticky come dripping out of him when Basilone pulls out. He certainly feels more than he felt inside of him the moment Basilone came, where it was numb, odd.  
  
The older man doesn’t speak when he hands Sledge a damp cloth. He watches when Sledge cleans up himself, first gently rubbing the sensitive skin between his legs, then his chest. Next he throws the cloth aside and gets dressed. Basilone, laying on the bed, his own stomach is still covered in Sledge’s come, but he doesn’t make any effort to wipe it off, nor an effort to get dressed beyond his skivvies.   
  
Sledge leaves because he doesn’t know what else to do, makes his way back to his own tent and tries to act as if nothing’s happened. The men greet him as usual, invite him for a cards game, and that’s it.  
  
He forgets about Basilone over the next months. They are too involved in fighting, too busy with not thinking to remember the good days. And when he gets back home and learns Basilone was killed in combat, he swallows away the tightness in his throat and thinks to himself:  _it’s for the best. He doesn’t have to live with the memories._ And then, then he thinks he understands why Basilone returned to war.  
  
  


> If thought is life  
>  And strength and breath,  
>  And the want  
>  Of thought is death,
> 
> Then am I  
>  A happy fly  
>  If I live,  
>  Or if I die**

  
  
  
Notes:   
* Songs of Innocence by William Blake: The Schoolboy  
**Songs of Experience by William Blake: The Fly


End file.
